


Arbitrary

by virmillion



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Choose Your Own Adventure, Choose Your Own Ending, Gen, patton is a sad birthday boye
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-08-20 00:47:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16545581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virmillion/pseuds/virmillion
Summary: so patton had a birthday, and i had boredom, which led to a choose-your-own-adventure (sort of) fic - basically, read either chapter 2 or chapter 3 based on





	1. Start Here

Dads are known to have certain responsibilities to fulfill. Taking out the trash, being the ‘fun parent’ with the presents, being the loud sneezer, protecting their kids, you name it, dads probably do it. Patton is no different. Sure, he gets generalized to cracking jokes and baking cookies, but he really does try. He was the one that organized a second Christmas party when they realized Virgil was excluded from the first party. He was the one who ran all over town to find a bookstore with an exclusive copy of the book Logan insisted upon for his birthday. He was the one who set up three different cameras to record every single one of Roman’s performances since the boy could walk. All Patton really wanted was to make sure the other three were happy, four if you included Thomas, which he did, of course. He never asked for anything in return, as long as everybody around him was content.

Maybe that’s why he’s off by himself now.

He just emptied his soul out to put everyone else’s needs before his own, so why should he be surprised when no one noticed his own problems? Exactly. He shouldn’t be surprised. He should just smile through it, and pretend he isn’t upset that everyone forgot his birthday. Again.

“Patton? You gonna make dinner?” A soft knock on his door. Roman.

“Sure thing, kiddo!” Patton calls back, swiping a harsh fist over his eyes before turning to the small mirror on his dresser. The mirror Virgil decorated with purple and blue rocks. Years ago. No one seemed to care so much about making him gifts anymore. The stones shimmer in the golden glow of Patton’s room, distracting him from his own face. Skin mottled red from tear stains, cracked lips, an ever-furrowed brow. He shakes his head, drags his fingers over his cheeks a few times, and forces a smile. January fifteenth. Just another ordinary day. Nothing special, nothing important, nothing of note. An arbitrary day on an arbitrary calendar in an arbitrary life.

Patton throws open his door, praying the dramatic flair will disguise from his quivering chest.

“How’s spaghetti sound?” he calls into the living room, where the other three are draped over the couches. “I bought some stuff for those vegetable meatballs, it sounded interesting.” The most Patton receives in response is some non-committal grunts, not even a nod. Not even a word from Logan on how vegetarian meatballs shouldn’t technically be called meatballs. “Great.”

In the kitchen, he lets his mind dissolve in the menial tasks of measuring and mixing, ignoring how salty some of it tastes. Not like his head is bent too far over the pot, or the water dripping from his eyes will affect the flavor. It’s like Virgil always says, right? Everything's better with a little bit of salt.

Patton carefully ladles a considerable heaping of noodles onto four plates, drizzling the tomato sauce over top and stacking fake-meatballs on the rim. It’s not a long journey from the stove to the dining table, maybe fifteen paces, but it feels like fifteen miles. Everything feels like fifteen miles. Not that he’d ever say anything like that out loud. Fifteen. Arbitrary.

“Dinner’s up!” he calls, bustling around the counters to clean up all the little splashes of sauce and sadness. A momentary pause to look inside himself, aghast. He hadn’t meant to think of the second word. He didn’t want to think of it. Too late now. Too little, too late, but what else is new?

“Drinks?” Patton says to the congregating group as they shuffle to the table, staring down at phones and books and scripts. Disinterested shrugs, mumbles of water and sprite and coca cola. Patton grabs it all, plunking each bottle down before taking his own seat behind the smallest plate. The least food. There’s probably at least fifteen noodles on the plate, which is good. Enough to not starve. More noodles than words spoken at the table, to be sure.

“So, how’s everyone’s day been?” he asks, bouncing his fork against the plate.

“Reading.”

“Tumblr.”

“Auditions.”

“Great.” He lets the silence take over once more, interrupted by the clinking of forks and the occasional slurp of a noodle. Maybe a disapproving glance for the noise. Nothing more.

Fifteen minutes for four people to eat four plates of food with nine words exchanged. Disheartening, but not uncommon. They never seem to talk anymore, really. Just let words bounce around in their heads, never giving them voice or thinking the others will care to hear. Patton always loved hearing it, but evidently they didn’t love sharing. Unsurprising.

“’Kay, I’m done. Thanks, Pat,” Virgil mumbles, pushing his chair back, his half-full plate staying where it is. He heads for his own room, shortly followed by Roman and Logan, none of whom supply excuses for abandoning Patton. Again. On an arbitrary day, just like any other. Why should he expect any different?

Patton sets to work carefully putting away the dirty dishes, rinsing off the utensils and scraping the remains of the spaghetti into the garbage disposal. It screams at him as it crushes the food, chopping and shredding and crying and hating. Patton moves quicker.

The television is still softly flickering in the other room, sharing sad news and upsetting stories and terrible developments, the usual. Across the bottom of the screen scrolls a number. January fifteenth. An arbitrary day. Patton digs a hand under the couch cushion for the remote, unflinching at the scattered crumbs from food long forgotten. From late night movies that the four sides used to marathon together. Not anymore. Stale food from stale memories. He clicks off the television, letting his eyes drift over the spinning block in the corner, proudly announcing the time. 6:36 at night. 18:36. The hour squared is the minute. The hour doubled is the minute. Fun number games Logan used to teach him, playing around with the numbers for no real reason beyond mindless entertainment. Not anymore. An arbitrary game with arbitrary numbers. Patton probably learned the word ‘arbitrary’ from Logan, in all honesty. Not surprising.

Back in his own room, alone, Patton glances at the wall to the right of his door. While his room did have several nostalgia-related items when Thomas visited, it’s more organized than that when he’s alone. An entire shelf dedicated solely to candles from Roman, based around fond memories, lost to the winds of time. Patton lifts one gently from the shelf, from some holiday a few years back. Campfire donuts. Probably just a random Christmas gift at the last minute, its scent drowning in artificial sweetness. Manufactured. Arbitrary. Patton replaces the candle on the shelf.

The shelf below has all the crafts the other three had ever given him, each loved greatly and held near to his heart. The tradition of making Patton presents had a severe drop off once the youtube videos started. Too busy with scripting ideas, recording, planning, socializing, anything that doesn’t have to do with wasting time making Patton happy. That’s Patton’s job anyway, right? Make the others happy? He shouldn’t have the audacity to expect that they return the favor. Not like they ever really did, to be fair. Patton trails his eyes over the raggedy stuffed animals, knit with shaky hands and zero aptitude for reading a pattern. A coloring book, filled with crude drawings scribbled over in crayon. Numerous sets of collectible pens, all from his favorite shows and books. Patton steps back from the shelf and leans against his bed, sliding to the floor. His shirt catches on the blanket, riding up and leaving his back exposed to the scratchy material. An arbitrary feeling to notice, really, but better than feeling nothing at all. After all, he should know something about bad feelings, right? He’s at the core of a lot of Thomas’s feelings. Might as well give him the bad ones, too. Not like he isn’t used to it. The clock ticks softly on his bedside table. A little silver analog trinket, given in the wake of his being late to some event or another. A gag gift, really. Tick tock, the witch is dead. Seven o’ clock. Nineteen hundred hours. Time sneaking away from him, without another knock at the door. Silent and alone, Patton’s head lolls back on his bed, drifting off to sleep. An arbitrary activity for an arbitrary person.


	2. Warm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so you picked this ending first? cool, the alternate ending is in the next chapter, if you're so inclined to read it

    When he wakes up again, his room is still dark, the only light coming from under his door. The soft glow of somebody else being awake, someone else existing with him, some sign that he isn’t really alone. Patton rises from the floor, rolling out the kinks in his shoulders. In the hall, every other bedroom door is standing open, inviting in their emptiness. No one sits inside any of them, no researching, no music playing, no redecorating. A quiet hum reaches Patton from the living room, where he decides to head next. The wrong decision, perhaps, as he comes upon the other three sides, tangled up in a mess of blankets and limbs on the floor together. All asleep, all peaceful, all content in knowing Patton isn’t part of it. The television flickers with some forgotten Disney movie, the volume on low so as not to disturb the trio. Patton bends down to readjust one of the blankets balled up at their feet, flapping it open to rest over them. Much better. He takes a recliner chair for himself, happy enough to just be near the others, if not included. Better than nothing.

    When Patton rouses himself a short while later, the other three are gone, and the blankets are layered over him, a protective shield against the harsh air conditioner overhead. Still alone, but at least it’s not the freezing cold solitude he’s grown so used to over the years. Maybe a reminder from them that, while they don’t need him, there’s no reason to let him suffer beyond necessity. Or just obligation, given that they can’t exactly get rid of him. Patton can’t bring himself to wonder if they’ve tried. He can hardly bring himself to check his phone, to see if it’s still January fifteenth. Maybe it’s already tomorrow, he can move on, forget about it, but no, still a couple hours to midnight, still time for hope to crescendo before it vanishes.

    Off the chair and into the kitchen, where the light over the table is flickering gently, the lightbulb needing to be changed. That’s Patton’s job, normally. Was it silly of him to hope that, just once, his desires might be higher on someone else’s list? Probably. A fool’s errand, really, to expect any different. He retrieves a lightbulb from the box in the pantry, carrying out the simple task himself. Just like spaghetti. Just like watching the others. Just like taking care of himself.

    Patton leaves the light off as he leaves, only distracted at the last moment by some foreign object on the table, flickering softly. A cupcake with a candle. How did he not notice it before? Too troubled by his own insignificant problems, he supposes. A chocolate cupcake with a blue candle and white frosting. That’s all he has to show for today, but for once, it’s enough. A symbol that he really exists, just a little bit. Patton raises the cupcake to his lips, thinking hard before he can blow it out. Of course, he can’t share the wish, now, can he? Wishes never come true if you share them aloud. Patton should know, he learned that the hard way years ago.

    “Patton?” A voice rings out across the room, interrupting him mid-bite. Roman. “Guys, come on, he’s still up,” Roman hisses. Shuffling of feet, and one shadow separates into three as they move closer, illuminated by the still-burning candle, the wish unspent.

    “Patton, we are so sorry,” the slouched shadow says. Virgil. “It was a really long day, and we were trying to get something together before you could see, but we fell asleep and then you were on the chair and—”

    “I think what Virgil is trying to say,” the third one, Logan, interrupts, “is that we’re in the wrong. We offer our sincerest apologies for this, and hope you can forgive us for our transgression.”

    “Really, we’re sorry, Patton. We didn’t mean to make you think we forgot,” Roman admits. Patton allows a small smile to creep across his face, ignoring the little voice yelling in his head. _They haven’t even said it yet. You can’t forgive them when all they give you is excuses._

“It’s fine, guys. Better late than never, right?”

    “Right,” the other three say over each other, taking their respective seats around the table.

    “You gonna make a wish?” Roman asks. “I can make it happen, if you want.”

    “That defeats the purpose of a wish, doesn’t it?” Patton replies, his focus on the candle. Not even a shred of paper wishing him happy birthday.

    “You still gotta make one so it comes true,” Virgil says. He’d believed in wishes and Santa and the Tooth Fairy the longest, even more than Patton. “If you waste the wish, you can’t get it back, even if you don’t tell it.” Logan’s chair scuffles against the wood as he rises, moving for the wall. Probably bored of the festivities. _He probably doesn’t care._

    “You’re right,” Patton admits. He twists his mouth to the side, contemplating, before blowing a gentle puff of air. The candle extinguishes, pulling the room into darkness.

    “Happy birthday!” Roman shrieks as the newly changed lightbulb overhead flickers to life. Logan stands smiling by the light switch, his eyes glittering at Roman’s theatrics. The creative side proudly holds up a large banner, proclaiming well wishes for January fifteenth, while Virgil slouches at the other end, pinching the top corner between two fingers.

    “We really are sorry for making you think we forgot. We just didn’t want to be unprepared,” Virgil admits. “You do so much for us, with making dinner, fixing our blankets, taking care of us, we needed to make what we do for you perfect.”

    “We didn’t want to let you down,” Roman clarifies. He beams, slamming a piece of paper down on the table. A handmade card.

    “Roman, you could never let me down,” Patton reassures him. He takes the card, smiling at all the crude crayon drawings. Tiny memories written in wax to be treasured, something from each of the other three. Even Logan, an adamant denier of artistic capabilities, participated. “Guys, I love this. I love you.”

    “We love you too,” they respond immediately, erasing any doubt Patton might’ve had before. Any fear that they wouldn’t return it. _Unless they’re lying to protect your feelings._ Patton shoos the voice away, setting the cupcake on the table and extending his arms for a hug. A giant, warm embrace, and it’s not even midnight yet. He smiles to himself. Even if they are lying, he doesn’t care. He’d prefer sweet lies over painful truths, any arbitrary day of the year.


	3. Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so you picked this ending first? cool, the alternate ending is in the previous chapter, if you're so inclined to read it

The silver analog clock is still ticking away softly when Patton wakes up a few hours later. 9:36. The ten of the minute plus the one of the minute is the hour. The one of the minute divided by the ten of the minute subtracted from the one of the minute times the hour is the minute. Patton smiles to himself. For all he tries to resist adultery, Logan’s lessons in silly math games really stuck with him. Patton stands carefully, rolling his head to get out the cracks in his neck. Still no sound from outside of his room, or any indication that the other three remembered today’s significance, or lack thereof.

He pokes his head out the door, glancing both ways but seeing no one. Just the faint blue glow of the television. Funny, he could’ve sworn he turned it off. Patton shuffles his feet over the carpet, reveling in the scratchy fibers against his socks, decorated in puppies with mustaches. No sound emits from the screen down the hall. No turning of pages, no singing of songs, no tapping at phones. Patton moves closer, wincing as the floor creaks under him. Still no sound. No reaction. He’s alone.

The screen is on the slideshow of screensavers, this one of some landscape at a beach that Patton’s never seen, that he probably never will see. The couches remain empty, the kitchen dark, the hallway silent. Patton settles himself on the loveseat, alone, and turns the screen back on.  _ Toy Story 3 _ , maybe fifteen minutes in. He lets his head loll against the chair cushion, the mindless entertainment flowing around his head aimlessly. Nobody shows up to inquire about the movie still playing. Nobody shows up to wish him a happy birthday. Patton checks his phone. No messages. 11:30. The movie ends, the credits rolling up the screen as the next movie queues up.  _ Where the Wild Things Are.  _ Patton doesn’t lift a hand to wipe his cheeks, still damp from the ending of that Toy Story movie. He hasn’t made it through that movie once without crying at least three times. Usually more.

Patton drifts off again, the last bit of his birthday spent alone in the dark, shivering under the cool blow of the air vent. He can’t bring himself to grab the blanket on the other couch, instead drawing his knees to his chest and hugging himself. Not like anyone else is about to do it for him.

When the brightness of his phone screen wakes him up again, the television is on a screen saver, the room is dark, and he has a notification from one of his many games—a happy birthday wish, with a few free in-game currency tokens. The biggest present he’s gotten so far. Patton swipes a finger over his face, the raw skin still retaining the tear tracks. He doesn’t remember crying after  _ Toy Story 3  _ ended. Goosebumps crawl over his arms, still freezing despite the air conditioner having turned off already. Still alone. He would’ve thought somebody would make the trek out, notice him by himself, seen him asleep, done  _ something.  _ Of course not. How could he forget? He’s an arbitrary side, providing unnecessary guidance in the life of someone who didn’t ask for it. The others made that pretty clear already. His phone blinks again, a second notification from another app for his birthday. Great. His technology loves him more than the other sides do. What else is new?

Patton moves for the kitchen, turning the television off as he goes. Still never figured out who turned it back on in the first place. He makes himself comfortable with a bowl of dry cereal at the dining table, leaving the overhead light off. Shovels of manufactured flavor go into his mouth as he scrolls around on his phone, watching the battery drain as the clock ticks ever higher. 11:44. 4 percent. The hour times the percent is the minute. Still alone. With his fist propped under his chin, Patton lets his focus drift as he stares at a dark spot in the table, his eyes tracing the spirals as it melds with the rest of the wood. His vision blurs as he focuses on his thoughts, on how pointless January fifteenth is. What a waste of a day. 11:53. Still silent. Still alone. Completely arbitrary, and forgotten. The chair squeaks against the wood in protest as he pushes it back, empty cereal bowl in hand. He deposits it in the sink, splashing out the crumbs with the faucet before heading off to his room. Lights shine under the doors in the hall of bedrooms, but all of the doors remain shut. Patton lifts a fist to knock on the first, the dark blue one, but hesitates. They probably didn’t talk to him for a reason. They probably forgot. Maybe they remembered, and they didn’t care. They probably ignored him all day so he wouldn’t bother them. Patton lowers his hand, turning back for his own room and pulling the door shut behind him. The creaking hinges scream in the dark, splitting his ears. The most noise he’s heard all day.

Patton pulls the campfire donut candle back down from the shelf, admiring the picture on the back. Specially printed in-store, a personal image instead of the factory one, a snapshot of all four sides smiling with Thomas after posting the first sides video with all four of them in it—Logan, Patton, Roman, and Virgil. Together. When it first started going downhill. Patton snaps a match over its box, lighting the artificial happiness and letting the tiny flame illuminate his empty room. The yellow gleams bright, casting a faint glow around the rim of his glasses while throwing his shadow across the room, letting it meld with the darkness. An orange chunk of the wick pops and crackles, falling into the rapidly melting wax. Alone. Dead. Patton sets the candle on the floor, admiring the dancing flame as it warms his face. Something he can actually feel, something to remind him he’s not completely alone. Mostly. Not entirely. But mostly.

The lights outside of his door slowly click off as the night stretches on. 11:58. Patton closes his eyes, inhaling the indiscernible scent of the wax burning away. The metal of his door is illuminated by the fire, a tiny sliver indicating that not everything is empty. Most things are, but this one thing isn’t. This one candle, with this one picture of that one memory that he’ll never get back. When they posted the first video, and everyone slowly broke away from Patton, one by one. First Thomas, the instigator of it all, as he started to spend more time with his friends, planning and scheming. That’s not to say it’s bad, as Patton is a firm believer in the importance of relationships, but it’s more of a conflicting issue when those relationships come at the expense of his own. Logan followed closely behind Thomas, insisting that he needed to be busy writing plans and scripts, that he couldn’t be bothered with movie nights or arts and crafts or family dinners. Roman was right on Logan’s heels, determined to let a little frivolity cut through the boring planning stages of the videos. Even Virgil, his little anxious baby, vanished nearly as soon as he appeared, despite not being there for the first recording. He needed to be at Thomas’ side to make sure nothing too harmful slipped through the cracks, that some small detail didn’t get lost in translation, and Patton understood that. Truly, he did, but that doesn’t mean he loves the feeling of being forgotten now, with only a candle to show for it. 11:59.

Patton considers the tiny flame, how it fights to escape the wick, to consume the wood upon which it sits, to lick Patton’s fingers and dance over his skin and crawl through his clothes, singeing his hair and melting his glasses and bringing the room to the ground, taking Patton with it. He knows the tradition—light a candle, make a wish, blow it out. Simple. An arbitrary set of actions that has no real purpose in being fulfilled. Patton glances to the ceiling, the shadow copy of himself darkening the space above him. He should make a wish. He should talk to the others. He should voice his concerns. He should try to make things how they used to be. He should try to make himself happy.

He does not make a wish.

He does not seek out the others.

He does not voice his concerns.

He does not make things the way they were.

He does not know how to make himself happy.

He does not make a wish.

He does not make a wish.

He does not make a wish.

He blows out the candle.

The smoke drifts away.

The room goes dark.


End file.
